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<title>Apples are the Color of Blood by Wu2</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727190">Apples are the Color of Blood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wu2/pseuds/Wu2'>Wu2</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>None - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:08:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>247</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wu2/pseuds/Wu2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Apples are the Color of Blood</h2></a>
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    <p>I found myself outside in the apple orachard again.<br/>Despite the fact I swore to never go near that blasted<br/>apple tree again, Fran moaned and whined about being<br/>unable to get produce since she had broken her ankle<br/>(she could walk just fine). Unsurprisingly, no one was<br/>willing to pick apples for her. The only reason I was<br/>doing it was so she could finally shut up and stop<br/>whining. Knowing her though, this would keep her<br/>quiet for a day or two. Shaking my head, I reach for the<br/>nearest apple, overripe and probably wormy. I smile<br/>with vindictive satisfaction andPluck the apple out of Simon's hand.<br/>He smiles, reclining in the tree, his hand still<br/>outstretched, waiting for something.<br/>I freeze in my place dimly aware of Fran grumping<br/>from the doorway about how long I was taking. He's<br/>not supposed to be here, he's gone, gone when I left<br/>him forever two years ago. This isn't our apple tree,<br/>it's mine, mine. I'm clutching something mushy and<br/>something wet is running down my arm.<br/>When I look back, he's gone. So is the blood and the<br/>time I'll never get back. My head feels funny, like I<br/>drank a bit too much. Fran is yelling at the landlady<br/>who yells back that I've been out for only five minutes<br/>and I realize I've crushed the apple and blood and guts<br/>are on my hands again. So I was right. The apple was<br/>wormy.</p>
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